


Call Me By Your Nickname

by Sirius_1910



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Don't worry, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, I Tried, I'll get there, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, a lot of flirting, but they don't know it yet, sorry - Freeform, the other loser make appearances too, they're just gay messes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirius_1910/pseuds/Sirius_1910
Summary: Summer of 1983.Somewhere in Northern Italy.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	1. L’usurpateur

**Author's Note:**

> I’m an indecisive failure. Thanks Lisa for helping me decide who would be who lmao <3 I love Call me by your name, so I just had to give it a shot. I had to tone done the sensuality of it though, it seemed too forced for Richie and Eddie (still tagging it Mature tho, just in case). Please do picture all this with Sufjan Stevens and the movie soundtrack playing nostalgically in the background. Happy reading!

> _“I_ _could grow to like him, though. From rounded chin to rounded heel._
> 
> _Then, within days, I would learn to hate him._ _”_
> 
> **_André Aciman, Call me by your name._**

The roar of an engine called his attention.

A grin crept its way to Richie Tozier’s face as he quickly found a shirt, threw it on and walked to the window. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in the newcomer. But, then again, everyone was. Beverly swiftly got up from the bed she’d been lying on, smoking, and settled next to Richie, her body radiating warmth from beside him. It added to the summer heat that stuck to every part of his skin. He was relieved Bev was with him—keeping him in line, understanding him, comforting him—otherwise Richie didn’t think he’d survive every summer. His parents were too nice, and he loved them but sometimes that didn’t help. At all.

They saw him get out of the yellow cab that had parked at the entrance, where Wentworth Tozier was expecting him. Richie would never forget; his voice as he greeted his father politely, his rolled-up sleeves, his red shorts, his stern attitude, his soft brown hair. Oh, so many things that this man made him feel, from the very first moment.

Yet as much as Richie had felt drawn to the other boy, he’d mistakenly brushed off his initial feelings as anything but _want_ or _desire_. He had considered them as something much shallower, something unspeakable. And he would spend hours wondering why his heart beat so fast, why he was suddenly overwhelmed by nervousness and fell speechless against all odds with a single eye contact from the other’s deep brown eyes. By the time he realized, he was almost too late.

Mr. Tozier then called for him. Beverly smiled and encouraged him to go introduce himself. He met his mother at the bottom of the stairs and she led him to where the newcomer and his father were talking. The moment Richie stepped into the room, his eyes trailed off to the boy, drawn in by the way he stood up with the poise of a Greek God, freckles like stars decorating his nose and cheeks, a hand stretched out for him to shake.

It had become sort of a tradition in the cozy Italian Tozier household; taking in young academics for the summer. For Richie it meant six weeks of trivial conversation and listening to cultural-historical lectures from Wentworth Tozier, stuck trying—and failing—to at least befriend the guests. He couldn’t tolerate most of them. All to later stand beside his family, biding farewell to someone he’d never see again. He was getting tired of it. And Richie didn’t want the American to end up like all the others who’d come before him.

He’d promised himself to not shut out the other boy so much this time, to not push to the limit. _Beep, beep,_ was his lifetime reminder. So, he smiled and shook his hand.

“Richie, Eddie. Eddie, Richie.” His father presented them. Richie’s hand almost completely engulfed Eddie’s soft one, and now he’s wondering how come this boy was supposed to be older than him. Nonetheless, he found it— _him—_ extremely cute.

Richie grinned, “May I take your belongings to your quarters?” The voice of the English Butler offered. Eddie raised his eyebrows and softly chuckled, and Richie wanted nothing more than to make him laugh again, properly, until his last breath.

“Sure,” Eddie answered, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

Richie had been given the task, as always, to vacate his room to lend it to the annual guest. Therefore, he would take his music sheets, his guitar, clothes and move to the room right next to it. He carried Eddie’s bags refusing any help, and led him to his room, passing Beverly on the stairs. The worn-down walls were still adorned by a few band posters (the others he owned completely covered the room at his home) and his guitar lay on the floor nearby.

Eddie glanced around disinterestedly until his eyes fixated on the bed. Groaning, he practically melted into the sheets, exhausted from the journey. Richie set down Eddie’s bags—which were suspiciously heavy and made an odd clinking sound from the inside—and started ranting about how he’d given Eddie his room, and that he’d be right next door so they’d have to share a bathroom, but—

Richie’s words died in his mouth. A phenomenon that almost never happened.

Eddie was passed out, face first, in his bed. Slight snores escaped from his parted pink lips. Seeing him like this, sprawled out in all his glory, gave Richie a gutting feeling that settled in his stomach. _Fuck, he’s pretty,_ Richie thought, _maybe it won’t be so difficult getting along_.

His lips tugged upwards subtly as he quietly left the room. _God he’s going to be the death of me._

_🍑 🍑_

They didn’t see Eddie for the rest of the day—he’d woken up from his slumber to the early sunshine hitting him on the face. During breakfast, he’d shown interest in opening a bank account for the period of his stay. None of the guests had ever done that. So, Richie offered to go with him to Crema, the closest city, to help with anything he may need. Mr. Tozier gave him a radiant smile—he was proud of his son’s incentive. If anything, this gave Richie a bit more of the reassurance he needed.

They arrived at Crema pedaling, the sun burning their skin. Richie noticed however how Eddie’s skin was still a safe pale, an odd thing considering the amount of time he’d spent travelling in the area. Richie had a close relationship with sunburns—his skin was falling off on multiple vibrant red splotches on his shoulders and face. Nevertheless, days later on, staring whenever he had the chance, Richie would learn to be enthralled by the lighter, pink smooth spots on the palms of Eddie’s hands, the skin of his soles, his throat, the bottom of his forearm. He would dream of tracing his fingers on these spots, kissing them, adoring them, whispering in them _Eddie my love…_

“So… what does one do around here?” Eddie asked while they were sitting outside a bar, having stopped for drinks. The heat was suffocating to say in the least; Eddie had insisted on hydration.

“Nothing, wait for the summer to end.” Richie answered easily. He was absently playing with the hem of his shirt while subconsciously bouncing his leg.

“Yeah? What do you do in the winter? Wait for the summer to come?”

Richie grinned. _You got the hang of it, Eddie._ “Well, we only come here for Christmas and some other vacations.”

“Your parents seem nice though,”

“It is both a curse and a blessing.”

“I bet your house is full on holiday days,” Eddie felt a bit more distant now—just when Richie thought they were making progress. Eddie’s question struck Richie with a taint of jealousy from him. Maybe Eddie’s family wasn’t as close and warm as Richie’s. Or maybe he was just overthinking and Eddie plainly hated talking to him.

“Yeah,” His gaze wondered down Eddie’s neck, where a silver cross hang. Now this, _this_ compelled both boys when so many things catalogued them way too dissimilar to be compatible—the cross was an immortal amulet that surrounded _them_. Even though Richie wasn’t so religious, he still was a believer. And as much as Richie thought of the silver cross as a beacon of hope; a darker, deeper feeling filled him with anxiety.

“So, what do you so around here?” Eddie caught Richie’s attention back. He told him, trying not to sound boring: transcribe music, swim at the river, hang out with friends. Still, the conversation now seemed forced. Richie wanted to feel a spark of interest from the other boy, but he seemed unresponsive. Richie was known for being noticeable—his personas and jokes never failed—yet now he kept being pushed down by apathetic words.

“Sounds fun,” Cutting down whatever progress they’d made in conversation, Eddie proceeded to say nothing of importance for the rest of their time together.


	2. Albicocca

> _“_ _the final wish_ _  
> is love  
>  –cannot be bitter,  
> cannot deny,  
> cannot withhold  
> if denied:_
> 
> _the weight is too heavy_ _”_
> 
> _**The Weight of the World is Love, Allen Ginsberg** _

A lot was said in moments of silence.

Richie soon found out that the goal he’d set his mind on achieving was not going to be easy with Eddie. It was scary how both boys would collide and drift apart at the most unexpected of times. And it left Richie wondering why—just _why—_ was he so hated, yet could still crave, and couldn’t bring himself to give up on Eddie, even when all seemed against him and something inside him screamed _stay away_. But two words from Eddie and Richie was at his feet, not realizing the power this boy held over him, or the inexplicable way he’d do anything without questioning. He hated it. Hated the confusion.

More often than he’d like to admit, Richie would say something, or do something, to get Eddie’s attention. He clearly wasn’t an easy person to talk to. Whilst Richie had to be shut up; Eddie needed more than a nudge to open up—even to Mr. and Mrs. Tozier. So, he started taking advantage of the moments he had with Eddie to try and make sense out of his expressions, his manners. Little details that Richie would otherwise never pay mind to. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d spent more time hanging out at his father’s study, just because it was a place the other boy frequented.

What Richie just wanted was to know him, _understand_ him _._

Maggie Tozier came into the study carrying a tray of her signature apricot juice for them to refresh. As soon as his father caught sight of it, he started with a smug smile; “The word Apricot comes from the Arabic,” Richie grinned knowingly at his mom. _Here comes the lecture._ This was a test; he did this every year. “It derives from an Arabic noun, combined with the Arabic article ‘al’ before it. The origin of our Italian ‘Albicocca’ is ‘al-barquq’.”

“I may have to disagree with you there, professor,” Richie had noticed how organized Eddie was—it seemed that his mind ran just as fast as Richie’s, but with intricate patterns and well-defined ideas. Richie wanted to explore each corner of that mind. Why did he sometimes reached fidgeting, feeling for something inside his pocket? What music did he listen to? Why did he never mention his family? _Why, oh why, can’t I stop thinking about you?_

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna talk etymology so just bear with me for a second. You’re right in the case that most Latin words do find their origin in Greek words, however in the case of apricot it’s a little bit more of a complicated journey.” Richie had never seen Eddie so engrossed on a subject—and they were discussing the origin of a common word! Eddie finished his statement by putting right the etymology of Apricot; his expression proud.

Richie wondered what other things could Eddie rant about, and fought the urge to say _go on, I want to hear you talk some more._ Instead, he deflected, “Yowza, Eds gets off a Good One!” _Eds—the nickname—where had that come from? Are you already_ that _attached Richie?_ Eddie frowned at him, taken aback, bewildered and annoyed. Wentworth smiled, ignoring his son’s comment, and praised Eddie. He’d won him over completely.

🍑🍑

_He liked sports. He liked running. He liked to stay active._

Richie started listing these particular things—attentive whenever he was with the other boy. Eddie could end up breathless after doing any type of exercise but would still go on. He scratched ‘liked’ and thought it was more like ‘lived for’.

Richie wasn’t a very active person—he preferred laying low. He liked swimming though. Yet because of Eddie he found himself participating in outdoor activities whenever they popped up; something that had never been seen of Richie. That summer he learned to like these activities. Because Eddie did. As of now, he was hanging out beneath the sun at the court where they played volleyball, sitting alongside his friends Beverly and Ben Hanscom.

Eddie came up to Richie in a break, and a friendly hand slid to Richie’s shoulder. He flinched away as if it had burned him. Though someplace inside him, in a way, it _had_ burnt with a heat that spread to all his body from the place in which he’d been touched. He had the strange urge to lean into that touch, to submerge into it.

Richie’s senses during the time had been always on alert around the American. He was hyper aware of everything around Eddie, with the excuse of trying to understand him for his self-indulgence. Italy that summer became _Eds_ for Richie. Everything—every bird he’d heard sing, ever plant he’d smell, the warmth, the coolness of the night breeze on the balcony, the smoke and cigarettes—would connect to Eddie.

“Woah, what’s the matter? Did I pinch some nerve?” Eddie was afraid he’d hurt Richie. “Just relax,”

_You have no idea how weak you make me_. “I am as relaxed as I could be Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie didn’t want Eddie to feel discouraged, but still his voice came out cocky; hiding the frustration that bloomed from his confusion.

Eddie huffed, annoyed by the nickname, but kept his hand in place, now massaging. “Beverly, come, feel this,” Richie felt Bev’s small hand punch his back in a friendly manner. All three of them chuckled, but Richie’s was strained. “Feel that, right there,” Eddie continued, “It’s all knots; he should relax more.” _Fuck relaxing_ , Richie just wanted to squirm away from their touch and flee. So that’s what he did. In a very non-fashionable way.

It was the opposite of relaxing, actually, Richie felt exasperated. Because Eddie could inexplicably bring Richie Tozier down. Wreck him with a single touch. Leave him speechless like no one else could—staring at the other as if he could gaze upon the eternal meaning of desire itself. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Not when Eddie looked like he couldn’t give less of a shit. And Richie was—

( _I didn’t mean for this to happen, please don’t hate me I don’t know why I feel this things I’m just—)_

—afraid. Terrified if it ever became too noticeable or if Richie ever acted upon it and then Eddie would laugh at him, mock him, tell his parents, his friends, EVERYONE. The safest was to deny. Deny, deny, and believe that denial.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the short chapters, I didn’t want it to feel heavy, and since it’s mostly inspired in the movie, I needed a pace that flowed more. I’m probably gonna edit the hell out of this later lol bare with me cause I know this can be 1000 better. All the kudos and comments mean more to me than you can imagine, so please leave some if you like it 💙


End file.
